Broken Smile
by Spectral Cobra
Summary: Jerry Meredith lies in his hospital bed after Vimy Ridge. He's a mess, and there's only one thing that can bring him through. One chapter only.


Disclaimer: The characters are LMM's. The thoughts are history.

Dedicated to all those who _weren't _mended.

And all those that were.

**Broken Smile**

An empty, broken shell of a man, that's what he was.

A husk without a core.

A mass of atoms floating in the dark; sightless and immobile.

A tiny piece of the world; one soldier in a trench with one rifle in his hand.

A hundred-millionth of an army, like a grain of sand on the beach or a blade of grass in the meadow.

Who was he? What right had he to cling desperately to the forlorn hope that he would survive the next night to see another sunrise?

He was a toy; a stick-man. Made to be shoved around the world like a packing case to where he was needed. Made to endure horrors as if he had no feeling and no thoughts to speak of. And when the fat, warm Generals decided on a change, he would be shoved somewhere else and told to kill anything with a spiked helmet or a German accent. If he didn't, he would die. If he died, some other stick-man would take his place, and his body would be tossed into a pauper's grave and marked 'unknown'. Another Nobody in a cemetery where the sons of women lay unacclaimed and unsung. And tears would fall for him far across the sea where his father and his sister and the woman he loved lived out their days in petrified terror for him. They would always see a little white cross somewhere in France, marking his grave and declaring to whoever cared to heed it that he had died for honour and glory. But when the honour is forgotten and the glory curtailed: then for what?

Nobody would have noticed one man more sinking into the mire of filth that lay between two rows of barricaded trenches, his once-strong body torn by shrapnel and his future annihilated in an instant. Nobody would have seen him slowly fall to his knees, his life's blood seeping out of another brutal wound.

_He was killed instantly and without pain. He was a credit to his regiment. He gave his life for his country and for peace. _

To die was one thing. Walter had died. Perhaps in some fantastical, visionary way he had known he was going to die; that he would never see the green fields of home or the pretty eyes of his sisters and mother again. Perhaps he had eked out the remainder of his life in a squalid dugout for some insane profundity that went beyond mortal existence. In serene contentment, accepting his fate and committing his soul to a higher power. Perhaps he had dragged his feet to that enlisting office, his emotions kicking and screaming at his mind's willingness to take death on a whim. What the hell had he died for, anyway? He had so much reason to live.

But _he_ hadn't died. _He_ was still here.

Still here.

When so many others were not.

Perhaps death is better after all. It's quick, at least; unless, of course, you slowly bleed to death writhing in agony in the darkness, until the pestilential mud swallows you up like some hungry monster.

And the noise. God, the noise! And the stench of rotting corpses hanging limply in the air like smoke; choking you; suffocating you until you heave up your insides and fall into merciless unconsciousness, where the screams of the dying and the ashen faces of the dead would come back to haunt you again.

If there was pain in Hell worse than this, he ought to weep for the damned.

He was beyond tears now.

There comes a point when you've cried so hard that you feel completely hollow inside.

No more strength.

No more feeling.

No more life in the body.

An empty, broken shell of a man, whose limbs and eyes and ears were still in fine fettle, considering everything.

What was the use?

Some other man should have lived instead of him. Some other man's future should have been saved and brought back from death. A missionary, perhaps, who could do good work. A father, with three small children at home who need to see his face again.

A husband with a pretty wife and her sad smile, longing for her darling to come home to her.

Don't cry, beautiful woman. Don't cry. He'll be coming home soon. He'll dry your tears and stop the world from hurting you any more.

Smile for him. Make his life bright. He deserves you.

Beauty.

God - beauty in the quagmire of Flanders! Beauty despite the darkness and the stench and the blood.

He'd seen her face so many times. She was so beautiful - like a apricot tea rose against a curtain of lace.

Who was she?

An angel, perhaps, sent from heaven to guard him. She shouldn't be here amongst the mud and horror, but he was glad she was. She stopped the pain a little.

He wished he knew her name, so that he could call out to her when he needed her. To hear her soft voice telling him everything was going to be all right. That he'd be home soon.

That she loved him.

He opened his eyes.

He blinked. Hard.

The sun was filtering in through an open window near the bed, wafting in the scent of ...

Tea roses.

She loved him.

He loved her.

Did she love him? Really? Where was she?

A face gazed back at him from the bedside table. A beautiful face with soft brown hair and hazel eyes, sweetly familiar to him. It smiled at him from the silver frame.

His darkened eyes found the writing he knew was there. He _knew_ somewhere in his foggy brain. It _was_ there. He _knew_ it.

_**My darling Jerry. I love you with all of my heart. Your Nan.**_

His angel.

His angel who never left him. Never. Who never would.

_She_ could mend his Broken Smile.


End file.
